


Lover's Eye

by RedRowan



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe - Regency, Artist Steve Rogers, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2018, F/M, M/M, Peggy Carter & Howard Stark Friendship, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedRowan/pseuds/RedRowan
Summary: It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in want of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.  Yet for Steven Rogers, painter of miniatures, it is not the company of ladies, but the acquaintance of Captain James Buchanan Barnes, Royal Navy, that captivates his imagination.





	1. A Portrait of Anthony Stark

**Author's Note:**

  * For [talkplaylove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkplaylove/gifts).



> A huge thank you to my lovely betas LennyM and dovasarahi.
> 
> The beautiful artwork is by talkplaylove, and my deepest gratitude for her inspiration and patience. You can find more of her work [here](http://talkplaylove.tumblr.com/), and related posts [here](http://talkplaylove.tumblr.com/tagged/stucky-regency).

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in want of a good fortune has three avenues open to him: first, to marry well; second, to join a profession; third, to rely upon his own unique talents and capacity to toil. For Mr Stark, previously of New York, but now residing in Portsmouth, one of those avenues had led to another. Mr Stark’s prodigious talents as an inventor and engineer had brought him wealth and renown, and likewise brought wealth to his investors, one of whom had deigned to allow his daughter to marry the man. The birth of a son had cost Mr Stark his wife, leaving the widower to lavish the boy with material gifts, but to also avoid the attendant responsibilities of parenthood.

At least, such was the story told by the young woman introduced to Steven Rogers as young Anthony Stark’s governess, Miss Gillespie, as she guided him through the rooms of the Stark house.

“Don’t you think the drawing room would be a charming backdrop for the portrait, Mr Rogers?” she said. She had perfectly framed herself in the window, managing to show off her figure at the same time as appearing to make no effort of the sort. Steven could admire the feat, even if he knew that interest on both sides would be lacking; on his, for want of attraction, and on hers, for the lack of prospects that a painter of miniatures could offer a lady.

“It is…uh… a charming room indeed, Miss Gillespie,” Steven said, stumbling over his words, “but sadly, not suited to my needs. A miniature has very little need for backdrops, but instead for good light? That can be relied upon?”

“I’m afraid Mr Stark has overtaken the morning room as a workshop,” Miss Gillespie said, “precisely because of his preference for good light. Perhaps the nursery would do, but I’m afraid we shall have to wait until Mr Slaght has finished his lessons.” Miss Gillespie smiled. “Perhaps -“

“Ah, you must be the artist,” came a new voice. Steven turned to see a tall, fair-haired man standing in the doorway. “Mr Stark would like to speak with you.”

“Of course,” Steven said, welcoming the rescue. He held out his hand. “Steven Rogers, Mr…?”

“Jarvis,” said the man, shaking Steven’s hand. “Mr Stark’s valet. If you would come this way.”

Steven made a short bow to Miss Gillespie, who smiled as if he had flattered her. He followed Mr Jarvis through the house, until they found a door from which came the sound of…furniture moving, perhaps?

“If I may be a touch indiscreet, Mr Rogers?” Mr Jarvis said.

Steven resisted describing how much more than a touch indiscreet Miss Gillespie had been.

“Of course,” he said.

“Mr Stark is…an American,” Mr Jarvis said, as if that explained everything. “Some find his ways…unconventional, but I assure you, he intends no impropriety.”

“Dr Erskine spoke very highly of Mr Stark,” Steven said, “and I know no better judge of character. As for propriety, I’m afraid I have very little experience against which to compare Mr Stark’s behaviour.”

Mr Jarvis’ mouth twitched. “Then if you will come this way.” He opened the door.

The large windows flooded the room with light, showing a room that may have been handsome with some tasteful furnishing, but instead was littered with equipment that seemed almost alien to Steven. Before one of the windows, a gentleman in his shirtsleeves had wrenched open a crate with a crowbar, and was pulling pieces of metal from the straw within, holding them up to the light.

“Jarvis, hand me the loupe -“ he said, his drawl marking him as the much-discussed American. He looked up to see Steven standing before him. “Oh.” He put down the cylindrical metal, back into the crate. “You’re not a French spy, are you?”

“Sir?” Steven said.

“Mr Stark, you wished to speak to Mr Rogers. The artist,” Mr Jarvis said, picking up a small loupe from a side table and placing it in his employer’s hand.

“Hm? Oh, the artist. Yes. Howard Stark, good to meet you.” He offered his hand, and Steven shook it. “You met Anthony yet?”

“Not yet, sir,” Steven said. “Miss Gillespie felt it would be best not to interrupt his lessons.”

Mr Stark shrugged. “Time enough, I guess. The accommodations suit you?”

“The…oh, yes, I’m staying at a Mrs Ratcliffe’s house on Highbury Street. She seems very agreeable.”

“Highbury? No, no, Jarvis, have Mr Rogers’ things brought here and put him in one of the guest rooms.”

“Mr Stark, I couldn’t possibly -“

“You can, and you will.”

“I should hate to deprive Mrs Ratcliffe of three weeks’ rent.”

“She won’t be deprived of it. Jarvis?”

“Of course, sir,” Mr Jarvis interjected. “I’ll put Mr Rogers in the East room.”

“Good. And Rogers, do join us for dinner tonight. I’ve got some friends from the Navy coming, you’ll be very welcome.”

“I…” All Steven could think was that he was a boy from Cheapside, and no equal to fine Navy officers. “I would be honoured,” he finished.

“Excellent. Well, then, Jarvis, take care of Rogers, and send a boy to tell Barnes to get here early, I want to show him these.” Mr Stark waved his hand over the crate.

“Of course, Mr Stark,” Mr Jarvis said as he ushered Steven out of the room, closing the door behind him.

“I’m not sure I have anything to wear to dinner,” Steven blurted out.

Mr Jarvis smiled genuinely. “We shall see once your things have arrived,” he said, not unkindly. “I assure you, Mr Stark’s friends do not stand on formality.”

He turned and led Steven up the stairs, an isle of calm in the whirlwind of the Stark house. Once he found the appropriate door, he knocked, and Miss Gillespie welcomed Steven into the nursery. A gentleman, introduced as Mr Slaght, was packing up books while a small boy sat on the floor, surrounded by pieces of wood and metal, not unlike his father downstairs. Upon being introduced to Steven, young Anthony Stark shook his hand solemnly, then proceeded to ignore him as he constructed some sort of contraption on the floor of his nursery.

“May I ask its function?” Steven said.

“Catching rabbits,” Anthony said, seeming unconcerned at the lack of rabbits in a first-storey room.

Glancing around, Steven saw several other contraptions of similar complexity, lining the shelves and standing on the floor. The curtains had been drawn back, and the light was indeed good.

“Yes, I think this will do very well,” he told Miss Gillespie.

Miss Gillespie gushed that he must stay a short while, and backed him into one of the chairs at the table that Mr Slaght had vacated. Once she moved to occupy the one next to him, Steven leapt to his feet.

“Anthony, what can you tell me about this?” he said, pointing at the first device he saw.

Where other children his age might have played with toy soldiers or puzzles, Anthony Stark wanted to build things. He took Steven by the hand and showed him the machines he had built, for stirring tea, for keeping time, for turning leaves in a book. The last was quite remarkable, holding the book at the child’s desired height, and turning the pages when Anthony pressed a lever on the floor with his foot.

“Your father wishes me to paint a portrait of you,” Steven said. Anthony nodded gravely. “I think it would be very fine to show you next to this device, don’t you?”

“It’s only a machine,” Anthony said skeptically. “I’ve made many more.”

“Gentlemen are often painted with objects that show their great achievements. Think how proud your father would be to show you with a machine that you and you alone could build.”

Anthony shrugged. “It’s all one to him.”

“I doubt that.”

But Anthony merely turned back to his rabbit-trap, and said no more.

Later, upon finding his way to the East room, Steven found his bags had arrived, and Mr Jarvis had helpfully laid out his blue coat on the bed; his best coat, if truth be told. Steven reflected that even Mr Jarvis’ own clothing surpassed his, and perhaps a life in service might not be so heinous a prospect as he had once thought. At least, if one’s employer were as unconventional as Mr Howard Stark.

Dr Erskine had saved him from having to seriously consider the option, by recognizing his talent as an artist and sponsoring his apprenticeship.

Smiling, Steven sat at the small writing table, and penned a letter to Dr Erskine, thanking him again for recommending him to Mr Stark, describing his treatment as a guest rather than a tradesman, and detailing the eccentricities of the house.

“My young subject,” he wrote, “is quite a remarkable child, and seems to take after his father in many respects. I see the same spark of genius in his devices that has brought his father such success in life.”

He omitted any mention of Miss Gillespie, not wanting to impugn the young lady’s character, even in confidence.

He finished the letter, and, given there was time before dinner, decided to explore Mr Stark’s library, which Mr Jarvis had told him he was welcome to peruse. He donned his blue coat with a sigh, and took two wrong turns before he found the main staircase. At its foot, a footman was taking the hat and cloak of a Navy officer; one of Mr Stark’s guests, presumably. The gentleman glanced up and saw Steven.

“I’m accustomed to seeing beautiful women coming down those stairs, but a beautiful man is something new,” he said.

“I’m…I beg your pardon?” Steven said.

“Forgive me. A little joke. We’ve not been introduced.”

“Steven Rogers,” Steven said, once again caught in a whirlwind. Beautiful man, did he say?

“Captain Barnes. I’m a friend of Stark’s. You’re not a French spy, are you?”

“You’re not the first to ask that today.”

“Given Stark’s work, we ask everyone. Even each other, sometimes. So, if you’re not a spy, what are you, Mr Rogers?”

“An artist. Mr Stark hired me to paint a miniature of his son.”

“Ah, yes, for Lady Carbonell.” Captain Barnes nodded sagely. “And the work progresses?”

“I only arrived from London today.”

“Well, then, when there is progress to be shown, I should very much like to see it.”

“Captain Barnes,” came Mr Jarvis’ voice as he appeared, seemingly out of thin air, at the captain’s side. “Mr Stark asks that you see him in the morning room.”

“Duty calls,” Captain Barnes said, and his glance seemed to run over Steven like a shock of cold water. “I do hope to see more of you, Mr Rogers.”

“You as well,” Steven said, then cursed himself as the door closed behind Captain Barnes and Mr Jarvis. What a dull thing to say!

He attempted to hide himself behind a volume of Lord Byron’s poetry, and succeeded for an hour or so, before the loud noise of three or four gentlemen distracted him. The loud voices and laughter travelled from the hall to the drawing room; Steven could almost make out the words through the wall. Briefly, he heard the sound of raucous singing, which then descended into more laughter.

Steven turned the page a little more forcefully than before. He heard footsteps outside the door, then the creak of hinges.

“Jarvis said I would find you in here,” Captain Barnes said. Steven nodded, for want of a clever thing to say. “Well, if those louts haven’t scared you off, I should be very pleased for you to join us.”

“I’m hardly frightened by a few sailors,” Steven snapped, but that only seemed to make Captain Barnes grin wider.

“Then there is no need to hide. Please.” He held open the door, and Steven adjusted his cuffs before striding past him. His shoulder brushed against Barnes’ coat as he passed through the door, and he ignored the tingle he could feel on his skin as he walked through the hall.

In the drawing room, they found three gentlemen lounging across Mr Stark’s fine furniture, apparently debating the finer points of boot care.

“Vinegar is what Mrs Upchurch uses,” one was saying, seated on the chair facing the door, “and I swear it does wonders - Barnes!”

“Dear God, is this about the stained boots again?” Captain Barnes said. “Leave it to Mrs Upchurch’s good hands. Mr Rogers, it is my solemn duty to introduce the Navy’s finest lot of layabouts. Captain Falsworth -“ The gentleman who had been so concerned with the state of his boots nodded. “- Lieutenant Dugan -“ The second officer, a tall broad gentleman with ginger hair, stood and gave Steven a half-bow before pouring himself a glass of sherry from the side table. “- and Lieutenant Jones.” The gentleman who had been sitting on the couch with his back to the door turned in his seat to offer a nod to Steven, and Steven felt his own face betray his surprise before he could master it.

Lieutenant Jones was black.

A black man was hardly an unusual sight in Steven’s life; he had known many in London, and been good friends with a few. But a black man who was a commissioned officer in the Royal Navy was something Steven had never even imagined.

“It is a pleasure to meet all of you,” he said, and he glanced to Captain Barnes, who was keenly observing his reaction to Lieutenant Jones’ presence. “I thank you for inviting me,” he added to Captain Barnes.

“We’re not your host,” Captain Barnes said. “Merely fellow guests.”

“Speaking of which, where is Stark?” Lieutenant Dugan said.

“Still working.”

Steven stepped into the room, and seated himself next to Lieutenant Jones on the couch, while Captain Barnes went to pour himself some sherry.

“Is he close?” Lieutenant Jones said.

“He thinks so,” Captain Barnes said. He poured a second glass and held it out to Steven, who accepted it. Excellent sherry.

“So when do we get to play with our new toys?” Captain Falsworth said.

“Wait,” Lieutenant Jones said. He nudged Steven. “You’re not a French spy, are you?”

“You’re the third person today to ask me that,” Steven said. “So I suppose you have broken my spirit, and I must confess that I am a spy, and intend to steal all of Mr Stark’s secrets.”

The officers laughed at that.

“So when does Stark think he’ll be ready?” Lieutenant Dugan rumbled.

“A few days or so,” Captain Barnes said. “Something about testing calibrations.”

“Excellent,” Captain Falsworth said. “And what pretence does this young spy have for being in Stark’s house?”

“He’s an artist,” Captain Barnes said warmly, and he smiled at Steven, who promptly choked on his sherry. Lieutenant Jones clapped Steven on the back.

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” Steven muttered, wiping away the droplets that had found themselves on his coat and shirt.

“I’ll admit, I’ve never seen that reaction to Stark’s sherry,” Lieutenant Jones said.

“It is excellent sherry, I assure you,” Steven stammered.

“So, Barnes says you’re an artist,” Lieutenant Dugan said.

“I specialize in miniatures,” Steven said. “Mr Stark hired me to paint a portrait of his son.”

“Lady Carbonell’s gift,” Captain Barnes said knowingly. The other three officers nodded.

“I confess, he has not told me its destination.”

“Lady Carbonell is the late Mrs Stark’s mother,” Captain Barnes explained. “She resides in the country, and has been known to descend on Stark’s hospitality with very little notice.”

“She does miss her grandson very dearly,” Lieutenant Jones said solemnly.

“And Mr Stark hopes a miniature will help console her,” Steven said.

“There’s little he can do to discourage her visits,” Captain Falsworth said, “but a portrait may assuage her demands for news of the child, at the very least.”

“I see,” said Steven.

“And we are fortunate that it brings you to us for a few weeks,” Captain Barnes said, raising a glass to Steven, who was very careful not to choke on his sherry again.

Mr Stark’s entrance a few minutes later bore all the hallmarks of informality that Steven had learned defined the man’s existence; he wore no cravat, and his coat bore a few dark stains around the cuffs, and he spoke rapidly as he greeted the officers, poured himself a glass of sherry, drank it, and hustled them all into the dining room.

Dinner was a fine affair; far finer than even Dr Erskine’s table, which until now had been Steven’s idea of sumptuous food. The wine was plentiful, which Steven suspected contributed to the volume of information he learned about the men at the table.

He learned that Mr Stark was developing a new kind of cannon and ammunition for the Navy, although he was lost in the particulars of precisely what Mr Stark had designed.

He learned that Lieutenant Dugan alone was married, and that Mr Stark had recently ended a liaison with an actress of whose appearance the officers all exclaimed their approval.

He learned that he could barely swallow when Captain Barnes looked at him intently.

As the dishes were cleared away, Mr Stark proposed a game of cards in the drawing room.

“Does the artist play?” Captain Barnes said.

Steven smiled. “Only when money is at stake,” he said.

He won the greatest share of the pot in four out of the five rounds of loo, most often splitting with Captain Barnes. By the time Lieutenant Dugan’s purse was nearly empty, Captain Barnes declared that he felt it bad form to bankrupt his second-in-command, and the officers declared their intent to stumble home.

“I do hope we shall see each other again,” Captain Barnes said as he shook Steven’s hand.

“I hope so as well,” Steven said. He climbed the stairs feeling like he was floating, and collapsed on the bed in the East room feeling warmed from the inside out.

The sore head in the morning was worth the evening, he reflected.

He took his time on the portrait of Anthony Stark, careful to capture the child’s look and character in his painting. Poor Anthony complained of having to stand still for so long each morning. Steven suggested that he keep the book-turner next to him during the sittings, and positioned the child and machine so that both were well-lit, and the former could keep his face up for Steven to paint.

A week after his arrival in Portsmouth, Steven felt he had nearly finished the face. Miss Gillespie, Mr Slaght, and Mr Jarvis all expressed their admiration for the work.

“It’s not finished yet,” Steven said.

He packed up his paints, and carefully carried the miniature back to the East room, where it did not run the risk of falling afoul of one of Anthony’s devices. A knock on the door surprised him, as did the presence of one of the footmen, George.

“Captain Barnes is in the hall, asking for you,” George said.

Steven was glad he had already safely stowed his belongings, for surely he would have dropped them all in shock.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“Captain Barnes. Is in the hall. Asking for you.”

“Thank you, George.”

He shut the door, and glanced down at himself. He was in his painting coat, which had spatters of paint on the cuffs, and the shirt beneath was likewise stained. In a panic, he tore off coat and shirt, and changed into the cleaner clothes that he had laid out to wear in the afternoon. He tied his cravat hastily and rushed downstairs.

“Forgive me for keeping you waiting, Captain, you called just as I finished work, and I was hardly presentable,” he said in a rush.

“It is I who should apologize,” Captain Barnes said, “I forgot that you’re not a layabout like us, and have a living to earn. I should have let you know I would be calling.”

“You are always welcome, I’m sure Mr Stark has said that many times.”

“Indeed, he has. But I had hoped you might wish to take a turn with me this afternoon? It is a fine day, and you cannot have seen much of Portsmouth, with Stark keeping you locked away in here.”

“I’m hardly locked away.”

“Yes, of course, you’re working, very diligently.”

“You’re mocking me, Captain.”

“Never.” Captain Barnes’ eyes sparkled, and Steven felt he had lost some sort of battle. “So, Mr Rogers, would you see something of Portsmouth? The sea wall, perhaps?”

Steven’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt too warm.

“I should be delighted.”

George materialized with Steven’s greatcoat and hat, and Steven stepped out with the captain. The wind off the sea was strong, and smelled of salt. Steven observed how quiet the town seemed, compared to his native London.

“Do you prefer London, then?” Captain Barnes said.

“I have known no other home. But there is something to be said for peace and quiet.”

“I grew up in Kent. Even this…” Captain Barnes swept an arm about them. “At times, I feel it overwhelming.”

It was a pleasant walk to the sea wall, despite the chill. Captain Barnes would sometimes point out a business that he or his friends enjoyed patronizing. He asked about Steven’s life in London, and Steven found himself talking about growing up in Cheapside, ill most of his life.

“My mother’s employer was a very generous lady. She paid for Dr Erskine to treat me. While I was sick, there was not much I could do other than draw, just on little scraps of paper. I drew one of Dr Erskine once, and gave it to him, and he said I had talent.” Steven shrugged. “He got me my apprenticeship.”

“I can see that Dr Erskine’s cure was effective as well,” Captain Barnes said in a teasing tone.

“Indeed, I am quite healthy.”

“I should say so.”

They had reached the sea wall, which was dotted with other pedestrians taking a turn. The spray showered them with mist as Captain Barnes looked out over the English Channel, and Steven wished he were able to set up his easel and capture this moment.

“What do you see? When you look at it?” Steven said.

“The place I shall die,” Captain Barnes said.

The walked in silence, after that.

A quarter of an hour later, Steven noticed a pair of young ladies waving to them.

“Ah! There she is!” Captain Barnes said, and he rushed to greet the ladies. Both were dark-haired and handsome, and greeted Captain Barnes with wide smiles.

“Bucky, who is this handsome fellow?” said one.

“Ah, Mr Rogers,” Captain Barnes said, “it is my pleasure to introduce Miss Margaret Carter and Miss Angela Martinelli.” The ladies curtsied, and Steven bowed. “Miss Carter is the niece of Admiral Phillips, and an especially dear friend of mine.”

“And what does that make me?” Miss Martinelli exclaimed.

“The dearest friend of mine,” Captain Barnes said smoothly with a smile, and the ladies laughed.

“And where does that leave Mr Rogers?” Miss Carter said playfully.

“A new friend, who… hopes to make a better acquaintance of all of you,” Steven said.

“Aren’t you a dear!” Miss Martinelli said.

“Would you ladies allow us to accompany you for a short time?” Captain Barnes said, offering his arm.

Miss Carter pretended to consider it.

“Angie, shall we allow them?” she said.

“Only if they promise to dine with us soon!” Miss Martinelli said.

“Who could refuse such terms?” Captain Barnes said. “Rogers?”

“Not I, indeed,” Steven said.

“Excellent,” Miss Carter purred. She accepted Captain Barnes’ arm, as Steven offered his to Miss Martinelli, who happened to be a lively conversationalist, inquiring after Steven’s business in Portsmouth, then his profession, and his impression of the Stark house.

Steven tried to keep up with Miss Martinelli, but he was distracted as he saw Captain Barnes reach into his pocket and extract a small, white paper. Subtly, Captain Barnes slipped the paper into Miss Carter’s hand, who then dropped it into her reticule. Miss Martinelli seemed none the wiser, and continued her cheerful questions as Steven’s heart sank. He realized that he had merely been an excuse for Captain Barnes to meet Miss Carter, and that he was being used as a distraction for Miss Martinelli. This may have offended Steven, but the true, agonizing cut was that Captain Barnes had not wished for his company for his own merits.

Steven looked out at the sea, crashing against the stone wall, and let the hopes he had barely put into words go with the waves.


	2. A Portrait of Howard Stark

“What’s the machine next to him?” Mr Stark said as he peered at the finished miniature.

“A page-turner,” Steven said.

“Not the usual prop for a portrait.”

“I thought that it would show Anthony’s achievements.”

“Huh. Well, Lady Carbonell will be pleased.”

“And yourself, Mr Stark?”

“It’s good work.”

Steven smiled broadly at that, for three weeks in Mr Stark’s house had taught him that this was high praise indeed.

Mr Stark held out the tiny painting. “Stay a few more days. I’ll have Jarvis take you to the silversmith, and you can discuss the frame with him.”

Steven hesitated before he nodded.

“Of course,” he said.

As he closed the door to Mr Stark’s workshop, he contemplated this short extension of his stay in Portsmouth. In truth, he had no reason to rush back to London; no engagements of any kind awaited him. But the past two weeks had proved exhausting for reasons outside his professional responsibilities. True to her word, Miss Carter had invited him to dinner along with Captain Barnes and Mr Stark; her uncle was Admiral Phillips, and she appeared to have run his household since the passing of Mrs Phillips. Steven found the company very pleasant, but did note Captain Barnes secretively passing Miss Carter another paper, and the brief moment when they disappeared into the hall together. Steven had tried to suppress the disappointment he would never name, but Captain Barnes’ continued presence in Mr Stark’s house, and his persistent attempts to befriend Steven, brought a great deal of sadness to Steven’s heart.

Yet a few more days could do no harm, especially while being treated as an honoured guest in a fine house.

His mood was further improved when Mr Jarvis gave him his fee, which included a substantial increase over the agreed-upon rate.

“I couldn’t possibly -“ Steven started.

“Mr Stark was quite clear,” Mr Jarvis said. “He felt the fee should reflect the quality of the work.” There was a hint of a smile on his face.

“I am very grateful for his generosity.”

Their excursion to the silversmith’s the next day initially took them on the same route that Steven had taken with Captain Barnes that first afternoon.

“I suppose Portsmouth does not seem like much, compared to London,” Mr Jarvis said.

“I doubt there are many places that can compare to London,” Steven replied.

“Indeed. Do you miss it?”

Steven shrugged. “I have not been away long enough to truly miss it. And my stay in Portsmouth has been more than pleasant.”

Mr Jarvis gave that small half-smile, and indicated a building a few paces down the road.

“Our destination. Herr Friedman is the finest silversmith in Portsmouth,” he said. As they passed through the door, Steven noticed the small silver case affixed to the doorframe, and recognized the Hebrew letter engraved upon it.

A small bell rang over the door. Examples of fine silverware were displayed on shelves behind the counter, and the air was heavy with the scent of chemicals. A handsome young woman was speaking with a finely dressed lady over a set of spoons laid out on the counter. The young woman glanced up, and Steven watched her face light up at the sight of the two gentlemen, before she marshalled her features into a more neutral expression. She was fashionably dressed, with the only considerations made to what Steven assumed was her religion being a modest cut to her dress and a lace cap over her coppery hair.

Steven glanced at Mr Jarvis, whose face bore an unguarded expression of shyness quite at odds with his usual efficiency.

The lady with the spoons departed, and the woman behind the counter positively beamed at Mr Jarvis.

“Mr Jarvis! It is always so good to see you!” She had an accent Steven placed as German, although her English was excellent. “And you bring me a friend as well.”

“Indeed,” Mr Jarvis managed, his voice sounding unusually tight. “Mr Rogers, may I introduce Miss Ana Friedman, Herr Friedman’s daughter. Miss Friedman, Mr Rogers is an artist, and he has recently completed a miniature portrait of Mr Stark’s son, and Mr Stark wishes him to discuss a frame for it.”

“But of course,” Miss Friedman said. “I shall call Papa, he shall be so glad to see you.”

She disappeared into the back of the shop, and Steven glanced again at Mr Jarvis, whose ears were red as he placed a hand on the counter, perhaps to steady himself. Mr Jarvis looked back at Steven, who merely glanced at the door to the back, then back to Mr Jarvis.

“Mr Stark has been a loyal customer of Herr Friedman for quite some time,” Mr Jarvis said.

“Of course.”

“Miss Friedman is very kind.”

“I can see that.”

Miss Friedman re-emerged, accompanied by an older gentleman who could only be her father; they shared the same angular features, and Herr Friedman’s hair under his cap, though mostly grey, showed vestiges of the same red colour that so became his daughter.

“Mr Jarvis!” he cried in delight. “It is always a pleasure, sir.” His accent was heavier than Miss Friedman’s.

“Herr Friedman, this is Mr Rogers, an artist. He has need of a silver frame for a miniature he completed for Mr Stark.”

Steven withdrew the wrapped portrait from his pocket and laid it on the table, drawing back the cloth to show the painting. Father and daughter leaned over to peer at it.

“What a charming child!” Miss Friedman said.

“Indeed, the young Mr Stark has become quite accomplished…” Mr Jarvis said.

“It is excellent work,” Herr Friedman.

“Thank you, I am indeed very pleased with the outcome.” Steven angled himself toward Herr Friedman, blocking Mr Jarvis from the conversation.

“…he built the machine next to him himself,” Mr Jarvis continued to Miss Friedman, now drawing away from the silversmith and the artist.

“Did he?” Miss Friedman replied, following.

“Mr Stark,” Steven said, raising his voice slightly, “intends this to be a gift for Lady Carbonell. I thought perhaps a brooch would be an appropriate mount?”

“ _Ja, ja_ , perhaps a wreath of flowers? Not too wide, delicate?” He held up a finger and disappeared into the back room. As he waited, Steven noted that Miss Friedman and Mr Jarvis were happily carrying on their conversation, which had moved on to clever devices they had seen employed. “Please,” Herr Friedman said, reappearing across the counter from Steven. “I have this shape.” He held up a teapot, with a circular wreath of flowers embossed on the side. “We mount the portrait in a wreath like so? Or perhaps an engraved frame?” He held up a small spoon, showing off the intricate engraving along the handle.

“Embossed, I think,” Steven said. “But, not flat? Rounded?”

He kept the conversation with Herr Friedman going as long as he could, discussing how the flowers should wrap around the frame, which flowers should be depicted, the precise width of the frame. It was far greater detail than was absolutely necessary, but Herr Friedman did not seem offended, and Miss Friedman and Mr Jarvis were still engrossed in their conversation.

Finally, when Steven could not think of anything further to discuss about the frame, Herr Friedman gave them the price (astronomical, to Steven’s frugal mind) and the date when the work would be delivered to Mr Stark.

“Goodbye, Mr Jarvis,” Miss Friedman said cheerily as they left, and Mr Jarvis stammered a goodbye in response.

Steven walked in silence next to Mr Jarvis as the latter adjusted the cuffs of his coat, then his lapels.

“I thank you,” Mr Jarvis said, “for discussing the work so carefully with Herr Friedman. It would have been quite beyond my capabilities.”

“It was my pleasure,” Steven said. “And it was kind of you to entertain Miss Friedman while I spoke with her father. I doubt she would have had much interest in the piece.”

“Oh, not at all! Miss Friedman has exquisite taste, particularly in jewelry. She has made recommendations to me quite often.”

“Indeed?” Steven indulged in a pinch more wickedness. “I had thought it was your plan to draw her away from our discussion to more interesting subjects.”

“Draw - no - I - I merely - it was not a plan, I assure you. An accident.”

“Yes, an accident of etiquette.” Steven decided to take pity on the poor man. “Which I could observe was not unwelcome on the part of the lady.”

Mr Jarvis did not speak for the remainder of the walk to the Stark house, though his ears were so red as to appear painted. He only found his voice again as they walked around the house to the servants’ entrance.

“Mr Rogers,” he started. “I pray that you will answer me in earnest.”

“I will endeavour to do so.”

“Do you believe that my company is…agreeable to Miss Friedman?”

Steven clapped Mr Jarvis on the shoulder.

“I do not know her well,” he said, “but I have seldom seen such delight on a woman’s face as when Miss Friedman saw that you had walked into her father’s shop.”

Nor indeed, had he seen such delight as Mr Jarvis’ face when he heard that.

“Thank you, Mr Rogers.”

As Steven climbed the stairs to his room, he decided that he should like that happy note to be his lasting memory of his stay in Portsmouth. Let love prevail, at least for someone.

Yet Mr Stark once more intervened that it should not be so. Over dinner that evening, he bluntly asked Steven to stay another three weeks.

“Have you another child you wish me to paint?” Steven said.

“By God, I hope not,” Mr Stark said. “No, this time it would be myself. There is a young lady, a Miss Markham. No, not Miss Markham, Miss Steele? I think it was Miss Steele we were discussing.” 

“Miss Steele, who dined with us last week?”

“Then not Miss Steele.” Mr Stark waved a hand carelessly. “Whomever. Jarvis suggested that a miniature might convince her of the sincerity of my affection.”

“Did he?” Steven had his own doubts on the subject.

“If you have no other engagements.”

“None, that I know of.”

“Excellent.” Mr Stark took a sip of wine. “Barnes will be happy to keep you around.”

Steven felt his heart sink again. “Yes, I have been very glad to make his acquaintance.” It was not a lie, yet not the truth either.

Mr Stark nodded sharply.

“Well, then, when can we get started?”

The next morning, was the answer. Mr Stark’s workshop was decided as the location of the sitting, and Steven set up his subject next to the window. Unfortunately, the father proved a more difficult model than the son, restless as he sat. Mr Jarvis eventually suggested using the time to catch up on Mr Stark’s correspondence; he would read letters to Mr Stark and take dictation. This only had a modest success in keeping Mr Stark still for Steven, as the gentleman had a habit of gesticulating, even leaping to his feet and pacing before remembering that he must sit where he was directed.

Four days after the portrait had been started, George the footman announced the arrival of Captain Barnes, who was promptly ushered into the workshop.

“Barnes!” Mr Stark cried. “Thank God, new entertainment!”

“I live to serve,” Captain Barnes said dryly. “Mr Rogers, I had thought you long departed for London.”

“Mr Stark has engaged me for a second portrait,” Steven said.

“Of himself, I can see. My apologies for my friend, he cannot be an easy subject.”

“He is…” Steven could not find a suitable lie.

“Terrible, I know it,” Mr Stark said. “Poor Jarvis is going hoarse reading to me.”

Captain Barnes sat in the chair Mr Jarvis had discreetly placed behind him.

“And so you expect me to entertain you instead,” he said.

“Have you any other pressing business?”

“I had intended to tell you how the prototypes are faring.”

They descended into a conversation about naval guns that washed over Steven as he worked, focussing on the shape of the face and the hair above it for now.

“For God’s sake, sit down, Stark!” Captain Barnes barked at one point, stopping Mr Stark from standing before he was half out of his seat.

Steven glanced at Captain Barnes, who smiled and nodded at him to continue. Steven turned back to the painting, but his hand was shaking slightly from the pounding of his heart, and he needed a moment to compose himself before he could place another brushstroke.

As the sitting drew to a close, Captain Barnes stood behind Steven, peering over his shoulder.

“It is extraordinary,” Captain Barnes said, “how fine the lines are. The detail is remarkable.” He turned his head, and Steven could feel his breath moving the fine hairs on his cheek.

“Thank you,” Steven managed.

“Shall I come back tomorrow, Stark?” Captain Barnes said, straightening. “Have you need of my services again?”

“If you wish,” Mr Stark said.

“Until tomorrow, then.” Captain Barnes bowed. “Mr Rogers.”

“Captain,” Steven said. He turned back to his subject as Captain Barnes departed, and caught Mr Stark’s eye. He felt as if Mr Stark were searching him, picking him apart as he might a machine. But the gentleman said nothing, merely stood and said he needed to work.

The next morning, Captain Barnes swept into the workshop brandishing a leather-bound volume.

“I’ll not let you vex Mr Rogers further, Stark,” he proclaimed. “If you want him to paint your damned face, then you’ll keep still for him.”

“I am hardly to blame for carrying on a conversation you started,” Mr Stark said, taking his place before the window.

“Indeed, and to correct my error, I have a solution.” Captain Barnes opened the book. “I shall read, and you shall listen.”

“I’m not some dowager who needs to be read to.”

“For the duration of this sitting, you are. Please, Master Painter, proceed.”

Smiling to himself, Steven took up his brush.

> _From fairest creatures we desire increase,_ read Captain Barnes,  
>  _That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,_  
>  But as the riper should by time decrease,  
> His tender heir might bear his memory;  
> But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,  
> Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,  
> Making a famine where abundance lies,  
> Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.  
> Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament  
> And only herald to the gaudy spring,  
> Within thine own bud buriest thy content  
> And, tender churl, mak’st waste in niggarding.  
> Pity the world, or else this glutton be,  
> To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee.

“Do you like Shakespeare’s poetry, Mr Rogers?” Captain Barnes’ address shook Steven out of his reverie.

“I have not had the chance to read him,” Steven replied. “My education did not emphasize the literary arts.” He gestured to his work before him.

“Then I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to him.” He flipped through the book. “This one is particularly dear to me.”

> _What is your substance, whereof are you made,_  
>  That millions of strange shadows on you tend?  
> Since very one hath, every one, one shade,  
> And you, but one, can every shadow lend.  
> Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit  
> Is poorly imitated after you;  
> On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,  
> And you in Grecian tires are painted new:  
> Speak of the spring and foison of the year,  
> The one doth shadow of your beauty show,  
> The other as your bounty doth appear;  
> And you in every blessed shape we know.  
> In all external grace you have some part,  
> But you like none, none you, for constant heart. 

The cadence of Captain Barnes’ voice mesmerised Steven as he worked, his breath rising and falling with the rhythm of the words. As the poem finished, he tore his eyes from the painting, and found Captain Barnes looking at him with a softness that one might mistake for fondness.

If Steven did not know about Miss Carter.

If Steven were a woman, perhaps.

If…if…if..

Yet all the ifs fell away as Steven smiled at Captain Barnes, and received a smile in return.

“It’s very beautiful,” Steven said.

“It is,” Captain Barnes said softly. “Shakespeare wrote of this youth, this Adonis, many times. He seems to have loved him dearly.”

“And what did the youth feel for him?”

Captain Barnes shook his head. “He does not say.” He cleared his throat. “Now, next -“

“Good God, do you intend to read them all?” Mr Stark interrupted.

“It is a mere…” Captain Barnes flipped to the back of the book. “One hundred and fifty-four. Hardly enough to fill the time Mr Rogers requires of you. So unless you have another suggestion for reading material?”

Mr Stark waved his hand impatiently. “Only one hundred and fifty-two left, I suppose.”

For one hundred and twenty-four sonnets, Steven listened to praise of the fair youth’s beauty. For one hundred and twenty-four sonnets, Captain Barnes gazed at him, making his stomach clench and his heart swell. For one hundred and twenty-four sonnets, Steven let himself believe that Captain Barnes might feel the same, that he had chosen those poems to express some secret message for Steven alone.

Yet even Shakespeare betrayed Steven’s hopes, as the fair youth gave way to a woman, and Steven listened to Captain Barnes’ voice describe the physical passion between men and women.

But even Steven’s disappointment could not stop him from remembering Captain Barnes’ voice at night.

> _My soul doth tell my body that he may  
>  Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason…_

He tried to push away the thought, tried to remember that Captain Barnes had his own Dark Lady, but alone in his bed, he allowed his own flesh to imagine that the captain’s desire might be for him instead.

He regretted his designation of Miss Carter as the Dark Lady, however, as she proved perfectly pleasant company at the dinners Admiral Phillips or Mr Stark would host. Despite his feelings for her paramour, Steven liked her; her conversation was witty without cruelty, and he enjoyed how she brooked no condescension or dismissal from the gentlemen around her. She also proved to have an interest in and a broad knowledge of art.

On one afternoon, Steven found himself in her parlour as they discovered they had attended the same exhibition at the British Institution the year before. Captain Barnes and Lieutenant Jones had convinced him to accompany them as they called on Miss Carter and Miss Martinelli, although Miss Carter had resolutely ignored them both in Steven’s favour.

Captain Barnes interrupted their conversation when he suggested that Miss Martinelli play the piano for them, which made the lady beam with pride.

“Oh, I should be delighted!”

She led the way across the hall to the morning room, where the piano was kept, and nearly skipped to the instrument in her excitement. She brandished a sheaf of papers to Captain Barnes.

“What would you like to hear?” she said.

“Anything, so long as you play it,” he replied, and she laughed.

“You are a wicked man, Captain!”

Steven turned to see Miss Carter’s reaction, but found himself alone by the door, Miss Carter and Lieutenant Jones having disappeared. He stuck his head into the hall, and heard voices from the other side of the central stairs.

“Do I have to beg forgiveness, Peggy?” he heard Lieutenant Jones say, shocking Steven with the familiarity.

“It is not a matter of forgiveness,” Miss Carter replied. “It is cruel of you to call as if nothing had ever happened between us.”

“I wished to see you, even if it were only as friends. Can we not be so?”

“No!” There was a pause, then Miss Carter continued at a lower volume. “We cannot be friends, because I love you, and you love me, and you have decided that since we cannot marry, we shall never speak of that again.”

“That is not - Peggy, it is too much of a risk to you - “

“And yet I still cannot bring myself to care.” Another pause. “We should go in, they’ll have missed us.”

Steven stepped away from the door, but not before he heard Lieutenant Jones say, “I do love you still.” At that moment, Captain Barnes looked around at Steven, and smiled broadly and openly, and Steven’s heart shattered once more for Captain Barnes’ sake.

“Miss Martinelli proposes something gay,” Captain Barnes said. “What do you think, Rogers?”

“Yes,” Steven said, as Miss Carter and Lieutenant Jones appeared behind him. “I think we could all do with a gay song.”


	3. A Portrait of Edwin Jarvis

Captain Barnes’ visits to the Stark house continued; his taste in poetry moved on from Shakespeare to Byron, and sonnets gave way to _Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage_. But Steven could not enjoy the captain’s voice as before, now that he was wracked with guilt for staying silent over what he had overheard. His responses to Captain Barnes’ conversation became shorter and shorter, until eventually Captain Barnes refrained from attempting to engage him at all. In the last week of Steven’s work, he only visited once, leaving Mr Jarvis to attempt to entertain Mr Stark once more.

“Jarvis, what was so damned important yesterday?” Mr Stark said as he sat himself at the window.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” Mr Jarvis said as he leafed through the book of poetry Captain Barnes had left in the workshop.

“Yesterday. I couldn’t find you for most of the morning.”

“I went to church, sir. It was Sunday.”

“Church takes all of an hour, if the vicar’s not drunk and rambling,” scoffed Mr Stark, who Steven doubted had willingly set foot in a church since Mrs Stark’s death. “I’ve never known you to linger.”

“I did not. I made a call before returning. Had you already started Canto Two?”

“Damn the canto, Jarvis!” Steven looked up, but Mr Stark was not angry, but grinning fondly at his valet. “Was it a lady?”

“Sir?”

“Jarvis, are you calling on a lady?”

Mr Jarvis cleared his throat delicately.

“I am, sir.”

“Out with it, who is it?”

“I’m sure it’s of no interest -“

“It’s of great interest, Jarvis. I knew you had a beating heart under there!” Mr Stark made to stand, but Steven let out an “ah-ah!” that made him pause, then sink back to the chair. “Come, Jarvis, you won’t leave me in ignorance.”

“It is Miss Friedman, Herr Friedman’s daughter,” Mr Jarvis admitted.

“Herr - the silversmith?”

“Indeed.”

Mr Stark appeared to ponder that.

“Which would make Miss Friedman a Jewess,” Mr Stark said.

“It would, sir,” Mr Jarvis replied.

Mr Stark nodded. “Is she pretty?”

“Exceedingly, sir.”

“Huh.” For an impressive full minute, Mr Stark’s normally mercurial features were still. “She must be a rare woman,” he mused.

“She is, very much so,” Mr Jarvis said.

Mr Stark’s face broke into a wide smile. “Then she might deserve you!”

The next day, as he sat before the window, Mr Stark declared that he had a brilliant plan to win Miss Friedman for Mr Jarvis.

“Rogers, you’ll have to stay another three weeks,” he said casually.

“I’m sorry?” Steven said.

“We’ll need a portrait of Jarvis, a gift for Miss Friedman.”

“Sir -“ Mr Jarvis started.

“Now, now, Jarvis, I’ll cover Rogers’ fee. And you’ll have to write a note. Something passionate.”

“I’m not sure I could compose such a note.”

“Oh, I’ll compose it,” shrugged Mr Stark. “You just have to write it.”

Mr Jarvis gave Steven a look that was wide-eyed and pleading.

“A gift can do no harm,” Steven said.

“Oh, dear,” Mr Jarvis said.

Three days later, master and servant traded places, with Mr Stark puttering in the background as Mr Jarvis sat for Steven.

“Will you be taking Mr Stark’s portrait to Herr Friedman for a setting?” Steven said.

“Good God, no!” Mr Stark said. “You’ll have to do it, Rogers. Jarvis cannot see Miss Friedman until we have everything in place.”

“This is a very elaborate plan, sir,” Mr Jarvis said.

“Foolproof!”

So it was that Steven carried Mr Stark’s portrait to Herr Friedman. He was sure to tell Miss Friedman that Mr Jarvis sent his regards, and she smiled with dazzling brightness. After he had consulted with her father, and turned to leave, he heard her voice.

“Mr Rogers?”

“Yes?”

“Will you…” She glanced over her shoulder, to where her father had exited to his workshop. “Will you tell Mr Jarvis that he is still welcome to call?” She held Steven’s eye steadily, with no hint of shyness. “If he is so inclined.”

“I assure you, he is, Miss Friedman.”

She nodded, satisfied. “Thank you.”

He tipped his hat and smiled over his shoulder at her as he left, and, not looking where he was going, walked straight into another person on the street.

“Rogers!”

Steven found himself gripping Captain Barnes’ arm, and felt the warring feelings of joy and shame upon recognizing him.

“I thought I saw you in there,” Captain Barnes said.

“Yes, I was on an errand,” Steven said, disengaging himself from the captain. “Excuse me.”

“Perhaps I can -“

“I really must go.” Steven hurried away, unable to even look Captain Barnes in the eye. He cursed himself for his cowardice all the way back to Mr Stark’s house, but could not bring himself to turn around.

The next day, George brought a note to him as Mr Jarvis was sitting for him.

_I fear I have caused you some offense_ , it read. _Pray give me the opportunity to make amends. - JBB_

Steven groaned aloud, causing Mr Jarvis and Mr Stark to both stare at him.

“Is there some cause for alarm?” Mr Stark said.

“Not at all,” Steven said, folding the note and securing it in his waistcoat. Mr Stark shrugged and returned to his work, while Mr Jarvis reverted to a placid demeanour.

After the day’s sitting was completed, Steven sat in his room and read and re-read the note. He picked up his pen and attempted to write a response.

_The offense has never been on your part…_

He crumpled the paper and threw it into the grate.

_While I have been engaged by Mr Stark, I have unintentionally observed of how intertwined are the lives of your social circle, including connections of which I am sure the parties involved, including yourself, would not wish me to be aware._

Crumple. Grate.

_My dear friend,  
I am ashamed to address you as such, given my appalling behaviour towards you. Your company has truly been the most cherished part of my stay in Portsmouth, and I have only returned your generosity with failures of friendship and honour. It is I who must beg your forgiveness._

Here the pen stilled, as Steven weighed the next words. He had no intention of shaming Miss Carter and Lieutenant Jones, but he could not in good conscience keep that knowledge from Captain Barnes.

_Please understand that I hold you in the highest regard, and I beg you not to press me upon the matter._  
_Ever Yours,_  
_Steven Rogers_

He sealed the envelope and asked George to have a boy take it to Captain Barnes.

He waited for the response. He settled in the library, which overlooked the street, watching for someone to come bearing a letter. None came all afternoon.

Nor the day after.

The following day, he was reminded by Mr Stark that they were expected at Admiral Phillips’ for dinner. In all his fretting about Captain Barnes, he had forgotten that he would have to socialize with Miss Carter as well. As he dressed, he rehearsed his plan for the evening in his head; he would be polite, he would be pleasant, he would treat Miss Carter with respect, but would indicate no approval for her treatment of Captain Barnes.

It was a good plan.

Of course, as is the fate of many plans, it was not to be. As they arrived at Admiral Phillips’ house, Steven realized that tonight was a far larger affair than the family dinners he had attended previously. Miss Carter had invited several of her friends, and there was the ever-present crowd of Navy men, including, of course, Captain Barnes.

Across the room, Captain Barnes met Steven’s eye, but only gazed at him with a slight look of puzzlement before glancing away. Steven debated making his way through the party, but Miss Martinelli insisted on introducing him to the daughter of Miss Carter’s friend, and the opportunity was lost. Through dinner, Steven was seated next to a Mrs Wentworth, who was a perfectly agreeable dinner companion, but not the object of Steven’s attention.

After dinner, they gathered in the morning room to hear Miss Martinelli play the pianoforte, and several of the younger ladies and gentlemen began to dance in the space next to her. Their elders broke away to play cards or converse, and Steven found himself in conversation with Lieutenant Dugan, while watching Captain Barnes dance a cotillion. When the dance had finished, Captain Barnes bowed to his partner, and crossed the room, briefly dropping his hand to Steven’s shoulder before going out to the hall. For a moment, Steven could not put a sentence together.

“Would you excuse me?” he said, and he made his way after the Captain.

The hall was empty, but the door to the parlour was open. When Steven entered, he could see Captain Barnes standing by the window, gazing up. He glanced over his shoulder, and Steven shut the door resolutely, though he could still hear the music through the wood.

“You have not replied to my letter,” Steven said.

“I had no idea how to reply,” Captain Barnes said. “What - I confess, I do not understand. What possible opportunity have you had to fail me?”

“I asked you not to press me -“

“When it is a matter so dire that you would run from me in the street, I fear I must.”

“It is…” Steven ran his hand over his hair in frustration. “If I speak, I may ruin lives, and certainly hopes. Yours is not at stake, so I beg you not to ask me again.”

For a long second, neither said a word.

“You said you hold me in high regard,” Captain Barnes said. “That you have cherished my company.”

“It was all true, I swear it.”

Captain Barnes nodded. “I have cherished it, too. And have missed your company dearly.”

“I as well.”

In the quiet, Steven heard the music change. Captain Barnes’ brow furrowed.

“Miss Martinelli must have relinquished the pianoforte,” he said.

“Oh?”

“She would hardly play a waltz in a polite gathering such as this.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Dancing to a waltz is quite scandalous,” he said, “it is considered too…intimate for polite company. Have you never heard one?” 

“I do not attend many dances, at home.”

“You could charm many a lady with a waltz.” Captain Barnes grinned and reached out, taking Steven’s hand and placing it on his shoulder. He took Steven’s other hand in his own, and took him by the waist.

Steven looked Captain Barnes in the eye. “Charming ladies has never been a preoccupation of mine.”

“Nor mine,” Captain Barnes said taking a step and drawing Steven with him. 

He continued to lead the dance, and Steven followed him.

“Truly?” Steven said, and he took the leap. “Not even Miss Carter?”

“Peggy?” Captain Barnes shook his head. “She is as dear to me as my own sister. I daresay a waltz between us would end in either laughter or tears.”

“Then you do not…”

“What? Peggy? Is that your great secret?” Captain Barnes dropped his hands.

“I had seen you with her,” Steven said. “You were passing her notes as if -“

“As if I were courting her?” Captain Barnes ran his hand over his face. “No, no -“ He started to laugh. “My dear Rogers, you have profoundly misunderstood the situation.”

“So it would seem,” Steven managed.

“No, Miss Carter is - dear God, now it is I who cannot speak. Miss Carter -“

“And Lieutenant Jones.”

“So you know about that too?”

Steven nodded.

“So what is the great secret if you know…” Captain Barnes trailed off. “You thought I was pursuing Peggy while she…had an understanding with Jones.”

“That is the long and the short of it.”

Captain Barnes let out a great bark of laughter. “Lord, what fools these mortals be!” He clapped Steven on the shoulder. “You have it only half-right. Peggy and Jones…that is complicated, but my role has always only been as their friend and go-between.” He smiled, and Steven’s heart grew until he was sure it would break out of his chest. “Do you understand?”

Steven leaned forward and kissed him. For one perfect, endless moment, he could only feel the pure joy of being here, with this man.

Reluctantly, he drew away, only to see Captain Barnes’ smile.

“Oh, good, you do understand,” Barnes said, and Steven laughed and held him tight against him as he kissed him again.


	4. A Portrait of Margaret Carter

The weeks flew by. Steven painted Mr Jarvis’ portrait in the mornings, and in the afternoons, Bucky - Captain Barnes asked Steven to call him Bucky - would call at the Stark house. Steven and Bucky spent long hours intertwined in the library, or the parlour (but not Steven’s bedroom, not yet).

Steven learned the tale of Miss Carter and Lieutenant Jones: the Lieutenant was the illegitimate son of an Admiral Leonard and a freedwoman from the West Indies. Admiral Leonard had never married, and had doted on his mistress and son, using his influence to buy Lieutenant Jones’ commission. Sadly, Admiral Leonard had died some four years previous, leaving Lieutenant Jones without his protection, in a career that had since stagnated. It was shortly after that Lieutenant Jones had met Miss Carter, and they had formed an attachment. Miss Carter had long determined to model herself on Queen Elizabeth and be the ruler of her own domain, but found herself willing to make exception for Lieutenant Jones, in defiance of her uncle and the certain loss of her inheritance and social standing. Lieutenant Jones had balked at the prospect of causing his beloved’s ruin, and thus their relationship remained a secret.

“The shame on Admiral Phillips!” Steven declared.

“It is the way of things,” Bucky said.

“It is not!” Steven was pacing about the library now. “In London, I knew many a man who could claim both white and black parentage. My teacher when I was a boy was a mulatta lady, and she married an Englishman, to very great happiness on both sides!”

“Cheapside is not Portsmouth.”

“You mean to say that the people of Cheapside are not the equals of the likes of Admiral Phillips.”

“I would not say equals - I know how the word distresses you.”

Steven huffed and crossed his arms.

“The rules are different,” Bucky continued, “for the likes of them.”

“And the likes of you?”

Bucky shrugged. “I am the son of a doctor, I’m hardly one of them.”

Steven slumped onto the couch next to Bucky. “How did you become embroiled in this?”

Bucky sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Michael.”

“Who is he?”

“Michael Carter. Peggy’s brother. We were midshipmen together. I was fifteen, and I thought he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.” He was staring at a spot on the carpet. “He took me home, when we were on leave, to meet Admiral Phillips, and Mrs Phillips, and Peggy.” Steven could see the corner of Bucky’s mouth turn up. “The other midshipmen, they would joke that I was courting Peggy. I suppose the joke was on them.”

Steven slid forward, his hand sliding down Bucky’s arm to his hand.

“Did you tell him?” he asked. “What you felt?”

“Oh, he knew. He knew the minute we met. We were at each other like rabbits, when we thought we could get away with it.” Bucky squeezed Steven’s hand. “He died. At Trafalgar. Seventeen years old. He was standing right next to me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.” Bucky drew in a great breath, and sat up straight. “Peggy and I remained friends. I care for her as I do my own sister. And despite what you think of him, Admiral Phillips has been very good to me.”

“Would that he were to Lieutenant Jones.”

“Yes, wouldn’t that make everyone’s lives easier?” Bucky paused. “Jones is a good officer. I recommended him to Falsworth. Between the two of us, we may be able to find him some better postings.”

“As your careers leap ahead.” Steven tried to keep his voice gentle, ironic, even.

“I cannot help that God has made my path easier.”

“No,” Steven said, “but you can ensure that it is made easier for those who have been treated unjustly.”

Bucky smiled and laid his hand against Steven’s cheek.

“You really do believe that, don’t you?” he said. “That the world can be made more just through force of will.”

“Force of will is all I have to believe in,” Steven said.

Bucky kissed him, full and tender, and Steven spoke no more for some time.

Yet the conversation haunted him as the painting of Mr Jarvis came to an end. Bucky pressed him to remain in Portsmouth, and Mr Stark said with typical nonchalance that he was welcome to stay as long as he wished. There were some inquiries into his services from both London and Portsmouth, and Steven found himself tempted to accept a commission from one of Miss Carter’s friends that he had apparently met at the dinner party (Steven not being able to remember much of the evening except being in the parlour with Bucky).

However, he had another idea that he wished to pursue.

“Bucky has said you had a proposal for me,” Miss Carter said as they strolled arm in arm along the sea wall, a few paces behind Bucky and Miss Martinelli.

“I do,” Steven said in a low voice. “I am sure he has told you that I am aware of your attachment?”

“He has. And yours.” She squeezed his arm and glanced at Bucky, and Steven could not contain his smile. “I am happy for you both. He is very dear to me.”

“To me as well. But for yourself and…the gentleman in question…I can in some small way offer my services to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you ever heard of an eye miniature?”

Miss Carter laughed. “Is that not what the Prince of Wales had sent to Mrs Fitzherbert?”

“Indeed. Although the bearers of such miniatures tend to prefer to be more discreet than His Highness. The advantage, you see, is that the identity of the sitter cannot be easily determined.”

Miss Carter was silent for several paces.

“I believe it would be a great comfort to Lieutenant Jones to have such a miniature in his possession,” she said, her voice light.

“I believe so as well.”

She squeezed Steven’s arm. “You are very kind, Mr Rogers.”

“The world has been unjust to you. Mere human decency appears as kindness in comparison.”

Discretion was the most important element of the project; Steven sketched a full portrait of Miss Carter in charcoal one afternoon over tea while Miss Martinelli played the piano, then worked from his sketch in his room at Mr Stark’s house. 

In the meantime, Mr Jarvis’ portrait was complete, and had been given a simple setting in a gold locket. The morning after it arrived, Steven saw Mr Jarvis square his shoulders, place the silk-wrapped package in his pocket, and step out into the street towards Herr Friedman’s shop. He returned in the afternoon with a faint smile on his lips and his ears very red.

A few days later, while passing Herr Friedman’s shop, Steven glanced through the window to see Miss Friedman at the counter, a faraway look on her face, and her fingers gently brushing the golden locket hung around her throat. She looked very beautiful, and very sad to Steven’s eyes.

The image of Miss Friedman stayed with Steven all the way home, and he stopped Mr Jarvis when he encountered him in the hall.

“How did Miss Friedman accept her gift?” he asked.

“Oh, she was very delighted, thank you for asking.” Mr Jarvis attempted to smile.

“Will you be calling on her soon?”

“I…I…” Mr Jarvis stepped close to Steven. “I confess, I am uncertain if it would be appropriate for me to continue my attentions to Miss Friedman.”

“Appropriate?”

“I received a letter from Mrs Friedman yesterday, saying that while the family holds me in high regard, they cannot accept any more than my friendship towards Miss Friedman.”

The realization hit Steven like a lightning bolt.

“Because you are not a Jew?” he said.

“Precisely.” Mr Jarvis twisted his hands together. “I am at a loss, Mr Rogers, and while Mr Stark is very kind…”

“He has difficulty seeing another’s point of view?”

“Yes.”

“Mr Jarvis, do you love Miss Friedman?”

Mr Jarvis appeared taken aback by the question. “I do,” he said simply.

“Then I fear all the advice I can give is that the denial of love is the cruellest thing in the world. And as one who has much experience in waiting too long: do not let yourself do so.”

Mr Jarvis nodded. “Thank you, Mr Rogers.” He stood up straight and proud. “You have been of great assistance.”

Steven smiled as he worked on Miss Carter’s miniature that afternoon. Perhaps, he thought, the coming spring shall see our loves flourish: Mr Jarvis and Miss Friedman, Lieutenant Jones and Miss Carter, and Bucky and me.

It was not to be. The next morning, Steven awoke to a flurry of activity as Bucky pounded on the front door. He stumbled into the hall holding the morning’s paper while Mr Stark appeared in his dressing gown. A maid brought tea while Steven took the paper from Bucky’s hand to read the headline: “Buonaparte in France!”

“Surely, this is some kind of satire?” he said.

“It’s true,” Bucky said. “Stark, the Admiralty will want -“

“I know,” Mr Stark snapped. He strode toward his workshop. “I shall write to the manufacturers,” he called before he shut the door.

Steven stared at Bucky, who stared back.

“It will be war, then,” Steven said.

“Very like,” Bucky said.

“You will - you will come back. Swear to me you will.”

“I swear it.”

“How long? Until you have to go?”

Bucky shook his head. “I don’t know. It could be weeks, even months. We were not prepared for this.”

Steven wanted to scream, or wrap his arms around Bucky, but they were still in the hall, where anyone might see them. Instead, all he could say was, “Have you had any breakfast?”

They ate mostly in silence, then Bucky asked Steven to take a walk with him. They threaded their way through the town until Bucky stopped in front of a modest house. He waved an arm at an upper window.

“My rooms,” he said, as if the sentence were an invitation.

Steven nodded and followed him inside and up the stairs. He didn’t see much of Bucky’s rooms as Bucky led him past the sitting room and into the bedroom, and pushed him against the door as soon as it was closed and kissed him hard.

They clung to one another for the remainder of the day and night, more than once declaring love and acting upon that declaration.

The pall of the coming war hung over the town for weeks. Steven completed the eye miniature for Miss Carter, who kissed it solemnly as she received it. Mr Jarvis’ absences from Mr Stark’s house became more regular. Steven accepted a new commission from one of the Portsmouth society ladies. He spent many nights in Bucky’s bed, and when he couldn’t sleep for knowledge of what was to come, he sketched by candlelight.

“Would you keep part of me here with you?” Bucky said once, leafing through the sketches and finding one of himself.

“I would keep all of you,” Steven replied, “but I must accept that your duty will not let it be so.”

“And what of you can I take with me?” Bucky ran his fingers through Steven’s hair, tugging at a lock.

“My heart,” Steven said, kissing him. “My prayers for your safety.”

But when he returned to Mr Stark’s house, he sat at the desk in his room, and held up his small shaving mirror. There were flecks of green in the blue of his eye, he noted. An important detail to recreate.

He pulled out his paints.

The orders from the Admiralty arrived when the spring was in full bloom. Wellington had been in Brussels for weeks, and the British armies were preparing to be transported to the Continent. The Navy would assist in the transport, and blockade the French harbours.

“Barely a war,” Lieutenant Dugan said over dinner, two days before their departure.

“Yet,” Captain Falsworth said.

“How much prize money can one win in a blockade?”

“Such greed, Dugan,” Bucky said lightly. “Have I not already provided for Mrs Dugan and the children several times over? I seem to recall taking a few ships.”

Steven’s stomach clenched at the image in his mind of Bucky swinging on a rope to an enemy ship, pistol in hand.

“You care nothing for the money because you never spend any of yours,” Lieutenant Dugan shot back. “What are you saving it for?”

“Perhaps when old Boney is once more vanquished, I shall buy a house in the country.” Bucky looked past Lieutenant Dugan, and met Steven’s eyes. “Find someone to share it.”

“What woman could possibly meet your exacting standards, Barnes?” Captain Falsworth said.

“Oh, I have no doubt Barnes has someone in mind,” Lieutenant Jones said.

“How can he? That one was too dark, this one was too fair, too happy, too melancholy, too witty, too dull, too old, too young. I have never once heard him express any interest in a woman as more than a dancing partner.”

“Nor shall you,” Bucky said. “I prefer to keep my affairs private.”

“So there have been affairs?”

Bucky took a sip of wine, and turned the subject to Mr Stark’s latest mistress instead.

The next night, it was just Bucky and Steven, alone in Bucky’s rooms. They ate a meal cooked by Bucky’s landlady, then fell into bed, desperate to touch, to kiss, to love. In the middle of the night, Steven kissed Bucky and told him not to fall asleep. He crept down the hall to where his greatcoat had been hung by the door, and extracted the little packet he had picked up from a smiling Miss Friedman. When he re-opened the bedroom door, he was greeted by the sight of Bucky, covered only to the waist, gazing at him with love.

The thought that it might be the last time he would see Bucky like this threatened to burst out of Steven’s chest as a sob.

“No, no, don’t…” Bucky leapt out of bed and held Steven against him. “I swore I’ll come back,” he murmured.

“And you must,” Steven murmured. “Or I’ll go to Hell myself to find you and drag you back.”

Bucky laughed, and they sat on the bed. Steven pressed the package into Bucky’s hand.

“What’s this?” Bucky said.

“You asked what of me you can take with you.” Steven gestured at the package.

Bucky untied the ribbon Miss Friedman had so carefully wrapped around it, and unfolded the square cloth. Nestled inside was a silver locket, unadorned. Bucky opened it, and saw the contents: on one side, a lock of golden hair, and on the other, a miniature of a blue eye with flecks of green.

In the silence, Bucky closed the locket and leaned forward to kiss Steven.

“It’s not my heart,” Steven said as Bucky sat back. “But it is the window to my soul.”

Bucky nodded, and drew the chain over his head, letting the locket fall over his heart. He tapped it.

“And even still, you keep me safe,” he said. “Safe under your watchful eye.”

Would that I could, Steven thought. Instead, he climbed onto Bucky’s lap and kissed him, and every kiss, every touch, every moan of love was a prayer that Bucky would return to him, his heart kept safe under his lover’s eye.


	5. Another Portrait of Howard Stark

Weeks went by. The papers carried news of the war, but no naval battles were mentioned. Mr Stark’s house seemed empty, without Bucky and his Navy friends to fill it with laughter. Steven finished his commission of the society lady, and Mr Stark, seemingly out of boredom more than anything, took up with its subject. The lady in question, a Lady Burnett, somewhat frivolously demanded a token of his affection, and thus Steven had another commission.

With Mr Jarvis absenting himself from the house more frequently, Miss Carter graciously accepted the burden of keeping Mr Stark still for his morning sittings. Mr Stark, for his part, declared her a far more pleasant captor than either Captain Barnes or Mr Jarvis. Her preferences for reading materials tended toward scientific treatises, which Steven found impenetrable, but which engaged Mr Stark’s keen mind, and the two would often debate the concepts enthusiastically.

In the afternoons, she and Steven often remained in one another’s company; he would escort her as she made calls, introducing him to her society friends, and as they walked arm in arm, they commiserated over the absence of their lovers. Steven found her company a great comfort.

Her absence one morning was cause for concern, as she sent no note to excuse herself.

“It is very unlike her,” Mr Stark said, pacing his workroom. “She has never been given to flights of fancy, I’ve always admired that about her.”

“Perhaps I should call,” Steven said.

“Good idea. I’ll go with you.”

Of course, Mr Stark’s idea of “going with” Steven involved having the carriage readied and brought around, until Steven was quite certain that the short walk to Admiral Phillips’ house would have taken much less time.

A footman bade them wait in the hall, and Miss Martinelli appeared at the top of the stairs.

“Oh, my dear Mr Stark and Mr Rogers!” she said, rushing down to greet them. “I’m afraid we’ve had some…terrible news, and Miss Carter is in no condition to see visitors.”

Steven’s mind rushed to Bucky.

“News of the war?” he said.

“Goodness, no!” Miss Martinelli wrung her hands together. “It is a private matter, I’m sure you understand -”

“Angie, dear, it’s quite all right,” came Miss Carter’s voice from above. As she descended, Steven could see her eyes were red from weeping.

“Peggy, you should rest.”

“I am quite well.” Miss Carter laid a hand on Miss Martinelli’s arm. “In all the world, these are the only gentlemen I would trust with this.” She smiled tightly and gestured toward the morning room. “Please.”

They followed the ladies into the morning room, and waited an excruciating few minutes as a maid brought them tea. Miss Martinelli stole glances at Miss Carter, but did not break the oppressive silence. Finally, Miss Carter raised her chin and looked at Mr Stark and Steven with a regal bearing.

“I must apologize that I was unable to attend the sitting this morning,” she said. “I am afraid I was unwell.”

“Then we are intruding on your recovery,” Mr Stark said.

“Not exactly. It is not that sort of ailment. It is, instead, the kind that requires several months to resolve itself.”

The men said nothing.

“Peggy means to say,” Miss Martinelli said, “that she is in a delicate condition.”

“Oh,” Mr Stark said, realization upon his face. Steven looked from him to Miss Carter, and the realization dawned upon him as well.

“I see,” he said.

“Does the gentleman in question know of this?” Mr Stark said.

“I have only been visited by the doctor this morning, Mr Stark,” Miss Carter said, “I have not had the opportunity to inform anyone save yourselves.” She picked up her cup of tea. “But it will not immediately be possible.” She took a sip, despite the fact that her hand was shaking. Miss Martinelli reached over and grasped her other hand.

“Am I permitted to surmise that Lieutenant Jones is the gentleman in question, then?”

Miss Martinelli turned large eyes on Mr Stark, while Miss Carter regarded him coolly.

“You may,” she said.

“How did you…” Miss Martinelli started.

“I am not so self-involved as I appear,” Mr Stark said. “And I’ve been told I’m quite clever.” He took a sip of tea. “Am I also to surmise that marriage is out of the question?”

“There is no way to know when Lieutenant Jones will return,” Miss Carter replied. “My condition will almost certainly be apparent by then.”

“And if he returns before?”

“It would destroy both of us. My uncle would cut me from his will, and most certainly would ruin Gabe’s career.” She set down her cup, still holding hands with Miss Martinelli. “You see my predicament. I cannot marry, but I cannot remain unmarried.”

“There are…discreet means to have…inconvenient children adopted…”

“Or I could marry you,” Steven said. Three pairs of eyes stared at him.

“What in God’s name?” Mr Stark said.

“I am perfectly serious. Miss Carter, you are the most admirable woman I know, and if your predicament may be resolved -“

“My dear Mr Rogers,” Miss Carter said, tears in her eyes, “I could not ask this of you. No, I would not.” She reached out her hands to him, and he took them in his own. “I would not condemn you to a life without the one you love, nor would I burden you with the care of myself and another man’s child. Which I fear would be quite apparent.”

“Not to mention that Phillips would hardly be more accepting of a Cheapside artist,” murmured Mr Stark. “If adoption is out of the question, you could claim to have adopted the child yourself.”

“Hardly respectable for an unmarried woman,” Miss Carter said dryly.

“But for a lady of means, newly married?”

Miss Carter shook her head. “I will not force Mr Rogers into such a position.”

“I didn’t mean Rogers. I meant me.”

If there had been a pause after Steven’s proposal, it was nothing to the silence now.

“Rogers,” Mr Stark continued, “would make a great sacrifice to assist you, but for me? I think it should be quite to my advantage. I have a son who is in need of a mother, and I have long found your company quite agreeable. I’m sure Phillips cannot object to my person or my ability to keep you in the fashion to which you are suited.”

“And what of fidelity, Mr Stark, if we are to be frank?” Miss Carter said, her eyes as sharp as any negotiator.

“I am not without flaws, I’ll admit it,” he said, “but I am proposing a union founded in felicity and respect. I should endeavour to act with all due discretion to prevent any embarrassment to you.” He paused. “And I should ask you to do the same. We have both known love, Miss Carter, but it was not our fates to live out our lives with those we loved. May we not live them out in companionship instead?”

Miss Carter stood, and the men followed suit.

“I thank you, gentlemen, for your gallantry,” she said. “Now I must ask you to excuse me.”

They left Admiral Phillips’ house in silence.

“It was a damned foolish thing to offer,” Mr Stark said, once the carriage had set out.

“That did not stop you,” Steven said.

“I’ve been living with her kind of people since I came to England. I’m a charming curiosity to them. You…you’d be lucky if Phillips didn’t challenge you to a duel over the matter.”

“Do you love her?”

Mr Stark stared out the window. “No. But I care for her a great deal. And I won’t see her ruined because Phillips is an ass.”

Steven had to laugh at Mr Stark’s coarse language.

“Indeed he is,” he said.

Two days later, Miss Carter wrote her acceptance of Mr Stark’s proposal. As the bride was of legal age, her guardian’s consent was not required. It was decided that procuring a licence would smack of undue haste, and instead the Banns would be read on three successive Sundays, with the wedding set for the following week.

Lady Burnett was discreetly informed that she should look elsewhere for companionship. Upon learning this, Steven assumed that Mr Stark’s sittings were at an end, and was surprised when Mr Jarvis called him into the workroom, where Mr Stark was already seated by the window.

“I had thought that without a recipient, there was no need for a miniature,” Steven said.

“There is a recipient,” Mr Stark said. “Did you not hear? I’m getting married.”

Steven sat down. “I have been here too long, Mr Stark. I have ceased to be surprised by anything in this house.”

But still he stayed. The news of the victory at Waterloo arrived, and with it the hope that Bucky would return. Only a few days before Mr Stark and Miss Carter’s wedding was to take place, masts were sighted in the Channel, and crowds cheered the ships as they entered Portsmouth’s harbour. Steven stood with Mr Stark and Miss Carter, and when Bucky’s ship was named as one that had arrived, his knees nearly buckled in relief. Miss Carter smiled, and took his arm in hers.

It was difficult to see who was disembarking, and Steven heard Mr Stark’s sharp intake of breath before he knew what the matter was. Then he heard Miss Carter’s “No, no,” and then he saw the stretcher being borne by two sailors, following Lieutenant Dugan. Mr Stark was already rushing to speak with Lieutenant Dugan, and all Steven could see was the pale figure on the stretcher, sickly pale with dark hair plastered to his forehead. He saw a flash of silver at Bucky’s throat, above the bandages that wrapped around his chest and shoulder, and as his eye travelled over the man he loved, he saw with horror that his left arm was missing.

Mr Stark was issuing orders to have Bucky brought to his house, and Lieutenant Dugan cleared a way through the crowd until they found Mr Stark’s carriage. Bucky occupied the whole of one seat, while Miss Carter was handed in to sit opposite, and Mr Stark waved Steven in to sit next to her as he and Lieutenant Dugan took the footmen’s perches on the back.

As the carriage began to drive, Bucky stirred, opening his eyes blearily. He murmured something which might have been “Steven” before closing his eyes again. Steven reached across and took Bucky’s one remaining hand, and squeezed it, praying Bucky would know him, and would know that he was loved.

But there was no response.


	6. A Portrait of James Buchanan Barnes

“What happened?” Steven asked Lieutenant Dugan.

“Frogs tried to run the blockade,” Lieutenant Dugan said gruffly. “We took a broadside, and his arm was crushed when he fell onto the deck. Doctor said there was no way to set it, and then a day later it was already festering. Captain said, ‘Take the damn thing off and be done with it.’” The lieutenant shook his head. “Never an easy thing, taking a man’s limb off. And the stubborn bastard stayed awake through the whole thing.”

Steven felt his stomach rebel at the thought. He fled down the hall, to where his bedroom was, and, in a moment of inspiration, gathered some paper and a drawing-board, and a stick of charcoal before returning to Bucky’s side.

He drew by candlelight as the sun set, and Bucky slept on. All night, Steven drew, waiting for some change. Whenever Bucky stirred, it was only to moan in pain, and Steven would administer the dose of laudanum the ship’s doctor had recommended.

Dr Erskine arrived from London the next evening. Ever kind, he explained every examination he made to Steven, who hovered next to the bed as if his presence alone would keep Bucky alive. The doctor pronounced the amputation of Bucky’s arm to have been skilfully done, and the wound was clean. He decreased the dosage of laudanum, so that Bucky could emerge from his stupor.

As he tidied the bed, Dr Erskine nodded at Steven’s sketches, lying on the bedside table.

“Hardly an occasion to commemorate with a portrait,” he said wryly.

“They are for myself, and no-one else,” Steven said.

Dr Erskine peered over the top of his spectacles at Steven, and perhaps he smiled a little, but said nothing.

When Bucky finally did wake, Steven was asleep in his chair, and started awake at the sound of his name. It took him a moment to realize that Bucky had spoken, and then he leapt to his feet.

“Bucky! Just - one moment.” He rushed across the hall to where Dr Erskine was sleeping, and knocked on the door. Dr Erskine appeared in his nightshirt, and immediately apprehended the situation. Pausing only to don a dressing gown, he went straight to Bucky’s side to speak with the patient. During the interview, Bucky might glance in Steven’s direction, but then immediately look away. Once Dr Erskine departed, Steven threw himself forward, grasping Bucky’s remaining hand in his, but Bucky only pulled his hand away.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Bucky said.

“I won’t leave you,” Steven replied.

Bucky paused, as if putting his thoughts together. “I would prefer to recover alone,” he said, every word an effort.

Stung, Steven left.

The next morning, shortly before noon, he came across Lieutenant Jones in the hall.

“Mr Rogers,” the lieutenant said. Steven stopped. “I understand that you are aware of…the particulars of what has happened.”

“I am.” Steven took in Lieutenant Jones’ sad disposition, and felt a kinship to his own melancholy. “It is not yet too late, Lieutenant. Miss Carter is not yet married.”

Lieutenant Jones shook his head. “Peggy is right, it is for the best. I merely wished to thank you for your discretion. And your friendship to Peggy.”

“She loves you.”

Lieutenant Jones unbuttoned his coat and turned the collar outward, to show where Miss Carter’s eye miniature was pinned to the inside. “And I will always love her. But sometimes that is not enough.” He nodded toward the stairs. “Captain Barnes?”

“Upstairs, to the right.”

Lieutenant Jones’ words rang in Steven’s ears as he lay in bed that night, until he threw off his bedclothes in frustration. He lit a candle, and spent too long gazing at his sketches of Bucky. Finally, he set one of his ivory plates, his miniature canvas, and started to paint.

Mr Howard Stark and Miss Margaret Carter were married. It was a subdued occasion, given that it was the gentleman’s second marriage, and the absence of the lady’s guardian, although there was some talk of the groom’s gift to the bride of a miniature portrait of himself. Steven stood next to Miss Martinelli as witness, and after the wedding breakfast found himself the custodian of Mr Stark’s house as the bride and groom departed for their honeymoon. He walked up the stairs in a daze, and knocked on Bucky’s door. There was no answer. He knocked again.

“Go away, Stevie,” he heard Bucky say.

He opened the door. Bucky sighed and looked at him.

“So. It is done,” Bucky said.

“They have departed for Sidmouth,” Steven said. “It is only we two and Dr Erskine left.”

“You mean we one and a half,” said Bucky bitterly.

Steven slid into the chair next to the bed.

“Do not think that of yourself.” He reached for Bucky’s hand, but Bucky withdrew it.

“No,” Bucky said.

“You are not alone, Bucky.”

“We are all alone,” Bucky said softly, nearly whispered. “Men like you and I, we shall always be alone.”

“We have each other.”

“Not for long.” Bucky finally looked at Steven, and there was something missing, something lost behind his blue eyes. “The cost is too high. It is too high for any of us who are not like them.” He spit the last word out.

“It does not have to be -“

“Did you not, this very morning, witness Peggy pledge herself to a man she does not love, for propriety’s sake?”

Steven looked Bucky in the eye. “I did.”

“And are you not aware of their plans for Jones’ child?”

“I am.”

It was deceptively simple; the new Mrs Stark would spend the next few months in the country, away from prying eyes. Upon the birth of her child, Mr and Mrs Stark would claim to be fostering the natural child of their dear friend, Lieutenant Jones. The child would grow up with all the opportunities Mr Stark could afford, but also without the knowledge of its mother’s true identity.

“Could you truly live with those kinds of lies, Stevie?” Bucky said.

“I see no reason to lie.”

“Not now,” Bucky said, his voice exhausted. He leaned back against the pillows. “But it always comes.”

He would speak to Steven no more.

For the week that Mr and Mrs Stark stayed at Sidmouth, Bucky refused to speak on any subject with Steven. Steven, for his part, attempted at least three times a day to engage Bucky’s interest, to no avail. But as disheartening as it was, Steven found himself hopeful as he saw Bucky become able to rise from the bed and emerge from his bedchamber. Dr Erskine departed for London soon after, pronouncing that his patient no longer had need for constant supervision. He did, however, recommend that Bucky stay at Mr Stark’s house until his host returned, if only to avail himself of the assistance of the footmen in tasks that normally required two arms.

Steven, when not being rebuffed by his lover, kept to his room, working.

Mr and Mrs Stark’s return heralded the final upending of the status quo. Miss Martinelli moved in, while Bucky returned to his own rooms. Mrs Stark, seemingly embracing the new role of motherhood, spent much time with young Anthony, allowing the child into the downstairs rooms to which he had previously only been admitted upon his father’s invitation. The house was transformed nearly overnight, from a widower’s sanctuary to a family home.

And the Stark family was not the only one to see change. Mr Jarvis had, while in Sidmouth, informed his employer of his imminent conversion to the Jewish faith, and his engagement to Miss Friedman. According to Mr Jarvis, as he recounted the conversation to Steven, Mr Stark’s only concern had been whether Mr Jarvis intended to subject himself to the physical requirements of conversion.

“And what did you say?” Steven said, laughing.

“I said that is the nature of religious conversion,” Mr Jarvis said primly.

“And what did he say to that?”

“He said that Miss Friedman must be a rare woman for a man to undergo such pains in order to marry her. To which I replied that indeed, she is.”

Steven smiled and clapped Mr Jarvis on the shoulder.

“I am happy for you both,” he said. “Indeed, you give me such hope for the future.”

“Hope?”

“Yes. Hope.”

Two days later, he walked the familiar road to Bucky’s rooms. Bucky’s landlady ushered him into the sitting room, where Bucky sat with a book awkwardly propped up in one hand. He sighed when he saw Steven, but said nothing until the landlady closed the door.

“I told you I wish to recover alone,” he said.

“I wanted to show you something,” Steven said, ignoring Bucky’s bitterness. He pulled his newest miniature from his pocket, and held it in the palm of his hand for Bucky to see.

It was Bucky’s own likeness, as Steven saw him. Handsome and brave, in his Navy uniform, the left arm visibly missing. The face was calm, and the blue eyes were warm and inviting.

“What is this?” Bucky said.

“It’s a miniature,” Steven said.

“I can see that. Why did you make this?”

“For myself. Because I love you still, and I would keep part of you with me. I’m not afraid of being different. I know the world would damn us, but I say to hell with them, and anything that would keep you from me.”

“Even with…this?” Bucky gestured at his missing left arm. Steven sighed and dropped to his knees in front of Bucky.

“I don’t care a whit about that, except that it gives you pain.” He laid his hands on Bucky’s knees. “I can help you. Let me be here, with you.”

Bucky shook his head. “We’d always be…on the outside.”

“Does that prevent happiness? You know Mr Jarvis, Mr Stark’s valet?”

Bucky nodded.

“He’s marrying a Jewish lady,” Steven said. “He has decided to convert to her faith. His path is not an easy one, not in England, but he has chosen it for her sake. And I have never seen a man happier than he was when he told me.” Now he took Bucky’s hand. “I would live my life on the outside, if you would live yours with me.”

This time, Bucky did not pull his hand away.

“I cannot answer you today,” Bucky said.

“Then I will wait,” Steven said.

He was not to wait long. Before the week was out, Bucky sent a note asking him to call. He nearly ran the entire way to Bucky’s rooms, heart hammering from more than exertion. Bucky was once more in the sitting room, but this time stood when Steven entered.

“Have you any plans to return to London?” he said.

Caught off-guard, Steven stumbled on his words. “I - er - I confess, I do not. Miss Carter - I mean, Mrs Stark - has introduced me to several of her friends, and I have had some inquiries about commissions, so, er, I had planned to stay in Portsmouth…”

“And had you given any thought to accommodation? Or will you trespass on Stark’s hospitality indefinitely?”

“Oh, er, well, I had actually discussed that matter with Mrs Stark, and I have been looking into rooms to rent.”

“I thought, perhaps, you might wish to come live with me,” Bucky said, his face turned downwards. “My career, it made me - well, I have not used much of what I won in the war. I had thought to use it to purchase a house here. If someone would share it with me.”

Steven smiled, his heart swelling inside him.

“I would. With all my heart, I would,” he said.

And Bucky smiled, the warmth seeping back into his eyes, before he leaned forward to kiss Steven.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. The ladies of Portsmouth would often attempt to prove it so, regarding one Captain James Buchanan Barnes, who, despite the loss of his arm and his decision to take half pay from the Navy after the defeat of Bonaparte, remained an eligible gentleman. There were rumours of a tragic romance in his past, which when questioned about it, Captain Barnes would touch the ever-present locket he wore about his neck, and show the miniature painted inside, of a blue eye flecked with green, and speak of his great love. The ladies would sigh in sympathy, and privately lament that Captain Barnes should still be in love with the long-lost blue-eyed beauty. And often in the same breath, they would remark how comforting it must be for Captain Barnes to have with him his dear friend, the fashionable miniature painter Steven Rogers. Their devotion to each other was truly remarkable, they would say. And rare, indeed.


End file.
